


When

by thesewarmstars



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-30
Updated: 2009-10-30
Packaged: 2018-01-25 12:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1649177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesewarmstars/pseuds/thesewarmstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to the ‘write your canon Severus’ challenge at severus_sighs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to atypicalsnowman for the read-through.

When he is forty-one, he stands at his cauldron counting stirs and remembering.

When he was seven, he understood that his mother did not love him. When she simply turned her head and walked away, simply ignored what was happening as if she didn’t care, he knew. He yelped at the pain, gasping in confusion, gaping at his father, and when she rolled her eyes and left the room, he knew she did not love him.

When he was thirteen, he knew Lucius Malfoy was not his friend. When his charming smile turned into a smirk, and his easy camaraderie gave way to a predatory gleam, he knew. He pulled away, but eventually his back was to the wall, and he flinched at Lucius’ grasping hands getting a hold on him, and when the hunger in his eyes only grew, he knew Lucius was not his friend.

When he was fifteen, he lost his only companion. When he said something he shouldn’t have and she would not let it go, no matter how many times he apologized, he lost her. He was reeling, casting about for something, someone solid to hold onto, and when she made it clear she had been questioning their association for some time and turned away from him again, he lost his only ally.

When he was sixteen, he discovered his worth. When four boys plotted to kill him and the headmaster only shook his head, muttering about kids these days, he knew. He lay in the infirmary recovering from his injuries, seething with indignation and still shaking from fear, and when the headmaster told him that they hadn’t meant any harm and boys will be boys, he knew he was worth less than them.

When he was twenty-one, he knew he was tainted. When he fell to his knees and begged, and still it was not enough, he knew. He saw the error of his choice, the evil in his actions, and was prepared to atone for it, but when it took his promise of _anything_ , he knew he would always be tainted.

When he was twenty-seven, he knew he was undesirable. When the first man he dared to approach choked back laughter at the sight of his naked body, he knew. He hesitantly acknowledged his lack of experience, nervous but still excited, and when the man was visibly relieved for an excuse to send him away, he knew he was undesirable.

When he was thirty-five, he found that it would never be enough. When he went back to the Dark Lord’s side, prepared to do whatever it took, he knew. He could rail against evil in an effort to atone for his sins for the rest of his life, but when offering up his mind, body, and sanity for the cause did not appease his conscience in the least, he knew that nothing he did would ever be enough.

When he was thirty-eight, he thought it would all be over. When he, to his surprise, did not die in the final confrontation and the Dark Lord did, he thought everything would be better. He let himself feel a flicker of hope for something better, for anything at all, but when he was still reviled or ignored, still felt that empty place inside, he knew it would not end so easily.

When he was forty, he knew could never be happy. When he conceded after months of fighting himself that he was lost and went to Harry, his one last chance, and explained, he knew. He told him about the feeling inside him, the flutter he experienced any time Harry was near, and when Harry pulled a face like he had gulped a glass of milk that had gone off and edged away from him, he knew he would never be happy.

When he is forty-one, he stands at his cauldron counting stirs and remembering. When the steam billows up in a cloud, he decants a dose into a teacup and holds it close to his face, closing his eyes and letting it warm his skin. He feels his face relax into the contented lack of expression that passes as a smile for him and sips the potion, and when he falls to the floor, the sound of shattering porcelain barely piercing the growing fog in his head, he remembers no more.


End file.
